


Boggart

by indigospacehopper



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Potterlock, Teenlock, i don't know what tags to use, john's jealous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 10:09:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4056091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigospacehopper/pseuds/indigospacehopper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John gets very jealous, and has an unfortunate run-in with a boggart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boggart

A few students shuffled awkwardly by, lowering their heads in an attempt to avoid the shouting. Others stopped to watch, until one of their friends came along and dragged them away by the ear, muttering: "no, this is private. Don't get in the middle of an argument between those two." 

First years avoided the corridor altogether. This was slightly more difficult for the Ravenclaw students however as it was taking place right outside their common room. Seventh years sidled quietly past, and the eagle sculpted brass knocker allowed them entry without even troubling them with a riddle; this was too private to warrant loitering. 

Sherlock Holmes, who was the soul receiver of his friend's rage, shuffled on his feet and looked down as the abuse came flying. He wasn't entirely sure what to do with his arms. If he folded them, it'd seem like he was being defiant and therefore uninterested in his partner's plight. If he held them behind his back, it'd seem unnatural. He was at a loss, so much so that in his wondering what to do with his hands he'd tuned out of the argument completely.

John Watson meanwhile was exceedingly angry, and was continuing to grow even angrier still as he realised that Sherlock wasn't listening to him, but rather fidgeting tirelessly with his hands. 

"See? Right now you're not even listening to me!" John gestured at Sherlock's being, who remained mute and unflinching. In fact, he had taken to staring at a spot on the ground a few feet behind from where John stood. Upon seeing this, John's frown deepened. "Sherlock!"

"What?!" Sherlock snapped, coming out of his trance and yelling the interrogative pronoun with a bit more force than he had intended. But then he supposed, if John was allowed to yell at him, he was allowed to yell back. John stared.

"You really weren't listening? To anything I just said?" He quizzed, glaring up at the taller wizard. Sherlock's face turned to pure ice, and John felt sick under the hatred shining through the normally sparkling eyes. 

"You know I get bored easily. Your argument wasn't stimulating enough for me." Sherlock shrugged, now deciding to hold his hands cupped in front of him. Nonchalant and uncaring, brilliant. 

"So you don't care then, is that it?" John prompted, and through the expression playing on Sherlock's face it was made apparent that was considering his view point. John gaped. "Oh my God... You're actually being serious? You really don't care?"

The hurt was now evident in his voice. "Sherlock...?" 

Sherlock turned on his heel and stormed into the Ravenclaw Common Room. His blue and brown scarf flying behind him as he went. "Sherlock...?" John asked again, slightly quieter than before.

There was a pause, before: "no, I don't. I don't care about anything you have to say. You're boring, dull, and your intelligence leaves much to be desired. I hate you. Now do us all a favour and fuck off back to your own common room." And with that, the door slammed shut. 

Silence fell on the corridor. John blinked at the spot where Sherlock had been. Suddenly, the argument seemed unimportant, and he was desperate to get back to Sherlock. He lunged for the door, but the brass knocker stopped him. 

"What costs nothing  
but is worth everything,  
weighs nothing,   
but can last a lifetime,  
that one person can't own,  
but two or more can share?"

If John wasn't angry before, he was now. 

"What? I don't know. Please, just let me get through." He pleaded, pushing on the wooden door with all his weight. The knocker sighed.

"I can't let you enter without you having worked out the riddle." It told him apologetically as John groaned and fell away, defeated. 

"But you let all those other students in!" He argued, folding his arms and pleading with the knocker. Knocker didn't reply. "Fine then," he started, clenching his fists at his sides as if to recompose himself. "Fine, when he comes out, can you tell him that I'm sorry?" 

Again, the knocker didn't reply but John took it as it would. Grabbing his broomstick (which had been dumped against the wall), he stormed off away from the Ravenclaw common room.

The castle seemed to have been hollowed out. As John strode along the corridors, he didn't pass a soul. He supposed they were all running riot in their common rooms, somewhere where he supposed he ought to be. Seeing, after all, that they were celebrating their first quidditch win of the season - John's first match since he's become quidditch captain. 

He knew that his presence would be wanted in the common room, but he couldn't bring himself to go just yet. After any quidditch match, win or lose, Sherlock would always be there with him. He'd support him when they lost, and get drunk with the rest of the Gryffindor students when they won. It didn't matter that he was in Ravenclaw, he always knew the password and spent more time in the Gryffindor common room than he did the Ravenclaw. 

Today however, Sherlock hadn't celebrated. After dismounted from his broom, John rushed into the Gryffindor changing room expecting to find a waiting Sherlock. Sherlock was in there, but was most definitely not waiting for him. 

As soon as he opened the door, John came face to face with a Slytherin student named Irene Adler. He wouldn't have minded the fact that she was in there, but it did cause him some distress when he spotted that she had her arms wrapped around Sherlock's neck, with her tongue stuck down his throat. What was worse however, was that Sherlock was kissing her back in full force. 

In that moment, John's blood supply shut off. 

As they twirled in an entanglement of robes and limbs, Irene's eyes flickered open. Her eyes locked onto John's and she pulled away from Sherlock, nodding towards where John stood. Sherlock however, didn't seem to get the message.

"What?" He asked, apparently disgruntled by the suddenness of Irene's finish. "Was that not good enough? Tell me what I'm doing wrong..." 

He turned around just in time to see John leave.

The thing was, Sherlock and John weren't even dating. They were very good friends, but John had always firmly believed that Sherlock didn't have care for relationships. As the bile rose and John fought it down again, his head swarmed with fuzzy confusion.

"Oi," he yelled. The students stopped immediately, staring guiltily at the floor as they pretended that they hadn't been snogging two seconds previously. "If you're going to snog, don't do it here." 

The boy grabbed the girl's hand and they quickly ran past, determined to carry on their session. John shook his head, but continued walking. Being prefect, as well as quidditch captain had its privileges. But seeing two other people so infatuated with one another made him feel oddly jealous, as though he should also be in a relationship like that. 

Mentally shaking himself, he pressed on his lonesome journey around the castle. 

He wasn't sure what he felt about Sherlock snogging Irene, as his mind inevitably swayed toward the topic. Any other bloke and he'd be pleased, glad that one of them had finally got themselves a partner. But this was different. Him and Sherlock accidentally caught Greg and Molly the once, and as a result he couldn't stop grinning for days. Why wasn't it the same when it was Sherlock? 

Because he doesn't care, John thought bitterly. Slowly, his train of thought drifted back around to the argument that had occurred when Sherlock had tried to explain himself before falling flat. 

Why had Sherlock felt like he had to explain himself, though? He wasn't John's property. He could kiss whomever he liked. Or so John had thought. But now it actually came to it, he felt sick at the prospect. 

"Lumos," he muttered, holding out his wand and illuminating the corridor in front of him. 

Now that he thought about it, he should have spotted the differences. A few weeks ago in potions, they'd been set the challenge of brewing a potion of their choice. John had settled for: Elixir to Induce Euphoria. Sherlock on the other hand had been pickier with his tastes, and after pouring over textbooks in an attempt to find "... One that isn't boring, John! These aren't even advanced potions, I could have made these when I was seven!" He'd eventually settled on Amortentia.

Through the process of brewing the potion, Sherlock remained diligent. Whenever John spoke he would snap at him to be quiet, and spent hours cooped up in the dungeon adding rose water and stem of vanilla when appropriate. He did however lean over to peer into John's cauldron every now and again to tell him to add something. 

Amortentia itself requires several days of complete darkness to brew properly. In that time, the potion would develop it's scent and power. John wasn't allowed to go anywhere near it, and indeed Sherlock was having difficulty in not knowing that it was brewing properly. 

Eventually, the day came for each potion to be exhibited. John's potion sat bubbling away happily in it's cauldron, a little bit too bright to be gold, and the rainbows that leapt from it indicating that it was finished did so a little bit too energetically. Despite the clumsiness of the potion however, John was proud of it. 

They stood in a circle around the display of bubbling mixtures with the rest of the class as Professor Slughorn unveiled them. Sherlock stood next to John, the sleeves of his robe rolled up to his elbows as he swayed in the balls of his heels. As he rose, John pressed his hand against his shoulder and pushed him back down. "You've done brilliantly, I know it." John whispered reassuringly. Sherlock merely gulped. 

"Too much Shrivelfig, John." Slughorn told him as he leaned over the cauldron and inspected it. "Other than that, a good potion." 

John nodded, accepting his criticism as Slughorn moved onto the next cauldron along; Sherlock's.

The moment the cloth was removed from the top, everyone inhaled deeply. Until...

"Nope!" The yell made John jump, and he was pushed aside as Sherlock stormed across the room and put a lid back onto the cauldron. Everyone, including Slughorn, groaned. 

John watched incredulously as Sherlock then proceeded to pick up the cauldron, before storming out of the room with it. 

He always regretted that he never got to smell it.

That was the first sign of Sherlock's change in behaviour. Upon brewing the potion, he'd become quieter, more distant and even more moody. John felt that he should have known there was a girl involved. Clearly, Sherlock had smelled something that had translated to Irene Adler in that potion. Well lucky for him that he's got her, then. 

There were more cases leading Sherlock's snogging session. He stopped talking to people, including John. He hardly ever joined him at the Gryffindor table, and remained instead at the Ravenclaw one. Lestrade had tried to talk to him, but received no answer. 

Fuck him, then. John decided as he turned into another corridor. Moonlight shone through the windows and cast a silvery glow across a rigid suit of armour. It was deadly quiet, and John feared that Peeves might be lurking about ready to strike. His footsteps echoed off of the stone walls, reverberating back to his tired ear drums. 

Whispering "nox", he slipped his wand back into his pocket, relying on the moonlight instead to provide him with light. 

"He doesn't care," John repeated to himself, glaring at his feet. He continued to watch his feet as he strode, his head running wild with every bad thing that Sherlock had ever done. "He doesn't care about you. He doesn't love you back."

There was something blocking his path.

Or rather, someone was blocking his path. 

The body lay sprawled at his feet, a pool of blood glinting in the moonlight. His hair was saturated by sticky red liquid, and his shirt displayed violent patches of red as it spread across the white cotton. The Ravenclaw tie looked almost black from the bloodstain.

Immediately, John set to work. Crouching down, he rolled the body onto it's side. 

He cried out in horror as the turquoise, unseeing dead eyes met his own.

"No, no, no..." He stressed, unbuttoning the now saturated shirt and tearing it away. Injuries sustained only by forms of very dark magic plagued the pale chest, as thick red blood dribbled along the rib cage. 

One side of his face was ruby red, but the other remained white and icy. Still, the eyes remained focused on John's as he pulled out his wand as choked out a variety of healing charms - none of which seemed to be working. 

"Shit, Sherlock." John's sleeve was now dripping in blood too as it dragged into the puddle, but he didn't care as he wiped his face. "Sherlock... I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry..." 

He buried his face as the tears appeared, unaware and uncaring as hands grabbed him lightly by the shoulders and hoisted him gently into the air. 

"Riddikulus." 

Through the fog of despair, John vaguely heard someone talking, and then felt himself being picked up bridal style. Embarrassment was ignored in the place of horrid guiltiness. 

"He's gone," He whispered. The person carrying him chuckled. "I caught him kissing Irene and then I yelled and then he told me I was boring and now he's gone. He's gone. He's gone and he hates me." The monologue continued for several corridors. He was desperately tired, and craved sleep. But even more than that he longed to be in Sherlock's company. To apologise for being a jealous prick. To say sorry. 

"If you don't stop crying I'm going to hang you off the Astronomy Tower and leave you there until you stop," a voice said, and John wiped his eyes again. "I didn't realise you were this much of a drama queen, is this why you got so upset earlier?" 

John felt himself being put down, but the material underneath him was squishy. 

"Why am I sitting on your lap?" He asked, looking down and staring at the long legs beneath his own. 

"Because you're sad," the other person shrugged. "Honestly, I thought you'd be a bit better at handling a boggart." 

John stopped crying altogether now. "A what?"

"A boggart." The voice replied plainly. John blinked. Very slowly, it dawned on him.

"Oh my God..." He twisted himself round and found himself gazing in disbelief at a grinning Sherlock. "Oh God..." He hid his face in embarrassment as Sherlock laughed. 

John felt Sherlock's arms wrap around his sides as he pulled him in closer to his chest. Sherlock squeezed him and John soon found himself laughing alongside Sherlock, still sitting on his lap. 

"So... Does this mean you don't hate me?" John asked, leaning against Sherlock but lifting himself up slightly. 

"No, I still hate you." Sherlock stated, John froze. "You've proven Mycroft right." 

John frowned, Mycroft had nothing to do with any of this, did he? "Mycroft?" He quizzed, but Sherlock continued regardless.

"But apparently even I can smell something when Amortentia is around..." His voice trailed away. 

"Wait, what? I thought you weren't happy with the potion? I thought-" 

"That I'm a perfectionist?" Sherlock prompted. John nodded.

"I smelled it and I panicked." He sighed, looking down. 

It quickly dawned on John the nature of Amortentia, or as it was otherwise known 'the most powerful love potion in the world'. When smelled, the person would be able to detect things that they love - even if they don't consciously realise that they love it. However, only the person who smelled it knew, everyone else smelled something different. John hadn't been able to sniff it, because Sherlock had been so desperate to throw it away.

"What did you smell?" John asked curiously. Sherlock inhaled deeply, attempting to build himself up before replying. 

"Honey." Sherlock replied.

"Honey?"

"Well, bees. Pollen, actually. Something along those lines, anyway." Sherlock reasoned, earning himself a smile from John.

"What else?" 

"Coffee." 

This one made John frown. "I didn't think you liked coffee that much." He said. 

"Neither did I. But apparently, there's one particular type of coffee that I like above all others... That's a bit odd, don't you think?"

John thought. When at Hogwarts, Sherlock avoided coffee as if it were poison, all except for John's. The House Elves brewed perfect coffee, but it often went amiss in favour of pumpkin juice and tea. As well as this, wizarding coffee was strangely different in comparison muggle coffee. Upon discovering this, John had written to his mum and asked her to send some decent coffee for his own personal use. 

It was kept in his dormitory, and he and Sherlock often drank it while doing homework or just lounging about. It was for their own personal use, and no one else's. John's mouth formed an 'O'. 

"Not really." He replied, smirking slightly but keeping it to himself. "Anything else?" 

Sherlock shrugged. "A couple of bits and bobs." 

Silence washed over them as they sat alone in the corridor. John remained sitting on Sherlock's lap, sinking into him and breathing simultaneously to one another. However, he suddenly remembered Irene and made to get up. Sherlock watched in confusion, looking slightly hurt. 

"What're you doing?" He asked, looking up at the now standing John.

"I don't think Irene would be too pleased to see me sitting on your lap," John pointed out, before settling himself next to him. 

The expression on Sherlock's face changed extraordinarily quickly, until it finally settled on bemusement.

"Irene? You think I'm dating Irene?" He asked, somewhat astounded. John nodded. "What's got into you lately? Of course I'm not dating Irene." 

John settled himself down next to him as Sherlock looked awkwardly down at his feet. 

"You were kissing her, though. People tend to do that when they're dating." John pointed out as Sherlock shook his head.

"She was teaching me." He mumbled, still avoiding John's eye. 

"Was that not good enough? Tell me what I'm doing wrong..."

The scene that had been playing out in the changing room earlier came flooding back to him, only this time it was from an entirely new perspective. 

"Oh,"

Sherlock gritted his teeth and nodded, fumbling with his hands as he did so. John smiled, unbeknown to Sherlock.

"Well, you know," he started, and Sherlock turned to look at him. "If you wanted someone to teach you how to kiss, you could have just asked me."

And with that, John grabbed Sherlock's tie and pulled him forwards. At the same time, he leaned in as their lips smacked together. Their noses bumped , but they continued anyway. 

John's nostrils flared at the scent of tobacco ash and strange chemicals; the scent he'd gotten so used to he'd become accustomed to it; the scent of his own Amortentia; the scent of Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
